I don’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t think about finding my birthmother, Roberta. The last time I saw her I was three and a half years old and the memory of that day is similar to the famous Baby Jessica Case.

I was taken kicking and screaming by a stranger to a waiting taxi and handed over to complete strangers. Most of my growing up years at home with my adoptive family, I asked a million questions about my mother and father and they always told me the truth, as much as they were told. It was never enough for me. I needed to know everything. I couldn’t talk to my friends about it because they thought it was terrible that I wanted to search and my Pastor felt the same way. All I ever heard was "Be thankful for what you’ve got, don’t go looking for trouble!" I didn’t want to hurt my adoptive parents so I waited until they both died before I got in touch with the Oprah Show.

That was the beginning of a roller coaster ride. I even ran a full page ad in the Delaware newspaper asking anyone who recognized the date of March 30th, who’s last name is Conn to please contact me. I stayed by the phone all weekend, never leaving the house. Then I went to an attorney who I knew had an adopted child and she told me since my adoption was closed I didn’t have a prayer of getting information. Having gone to the agency "Children’s Bureau" dressed like an attorney with a briefcase, with no appointment and got right in, but didn’t get much information.

Then one of the ads I ran in an adoption magazine paid off, it was called "People Searching News". A woman called and game me in a matter of seconds my mother’s name and other important information. The next day at work, I ran her name and date of birth through a data base and found her in New York! I called information in Yonkers and they told me she had an unlisted phone number. I was too excited to work, so I went home, called my husband and said we’re leaving for New York tomorrow! I don’t ever remember being so excited and happy, my hair needed a touch up and my nails needed new polish but I couldn’t sit still long enough, so I figured she would love me just the way I was. Forty years I longed for that hug, to touch her face and tell her how I missed and loved her.

Seeing my birthmother was my reason for living, finding her I would be finding myself and getting over my identity crisis. I ran her doorbell with roses in my hands and my husband had a video camera but there was no answer. So I vowed I’d sit on the front steps til she came home. When the mailman arrived, I asked him all about her and he said she died!!! It couldn’t be. . .he had to be wrong! I cried and screamed. . ."It had to be a mistake".

From there we went to the hall of records and eventually found out where she was buried. I had to see the grave to be sure it was true. It was a beautiful cemetery and my birthmother’s grave was on a hill where it was very sunny. I looked at her headstone touching it and crying, it should have been her beautiful face. I laid down on her grave to try to be closer to her and found myself pounding on the ground. . ."why did you leave me again"? I went into a horrible depression for a while but eventually started getting pictures and crafts she made, a box of letters she wrote her sister who I have become friends with and many family members and friends filled in the missing pieces. I now look into the mirror and the face I see is hers and I’m proud to be her loving daughter.

Sandi Grimmie